thanksgiving

grandmother's mashed potatoes pout on my plate.
I pour ketchup onto the sloppy mess,
making it sloppier.
my hair is red as poppies
and now my ketchup-lips, too
i'm roughly three foot two
growing and glowing
with each tooth.

I slurp it up and smile,
silver spoon, blue eyes,
brothers chatter across the table,
my grandmother sulks over her bowl
she smiles dimly,
her hand curls around her fork
each finger a tendril of skin and bone,
each rib poking out of her thin film of skin.
she scoots the turkey slices around on her plate,
making sure no one notices
that she hasn't taken a single bite.
i notice,
but i don't know what it means.

i am only seven
far from grace, far from heaven
i look around the table
not the slightest wonder about the gauntness,
the lightness of my grandmother
her frailness which makes her look a thousand years old.
i do not worry about it.
because for now, my biggest concern is dessert.

and so is her's.